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Grian knew a lot of things.
He knew which plants were safe for consumption, and which ones weren’t. He knew how to fly, and how to treat wounds. He knew how to navigate his surroundings, and how to single-handedly cook for a crew of up to 60 people. He could scrub the deck until his arms went completely numb, bringing him dangerously close to passing out. He knew tons of things, really.
How to be useful. When to shut up and do what he was told.
But most importantly — he knew not to hope.
Hoping was a fruitless endeavor, in his opinion. It only brought him pain. The worst kind, the one that he couldn’t ever truly bounce back from. Because once he dared hoping, he has only opened himself up to having that hope, that light, absolutely and totally crushed.
So he didn’t do it anymore.
Grian brings the knife forward, its sharp blade tearing through thin skin, shedding the potato of its outer layer. Soup. That was what he was doing right now. Cooking. The sounds above deck were really just an illusion, if he really thought about it. Nothing different than the kind of sounds that normally plagued him.
The saucepan on the stove was filled with water, two or three potatoes already patiently waiting beneath the surface. He huffed, throwing the finished potato in with the others, before grabbing a new one from the sack beside him.
There was a window right above the stove. He could really only see the water from it, the wide expanse of melancholic blue that made up the sea. It appeared to be infinite. Some days, Grian really believed it was.
A sword whizzled past. A man followed it, down, down, down into the deep.
Grian gritted his teeth, his eyes darting back to the sink. Right. Potatoes, soup — where was he?
It was awfully boring, making soup. That might sound like a given — but in this case, it was especially true. He’d never enjoyed it, so it was especially irritating how good he was at it. Ignoring the fact he had to be, lest he wish to get another lashing.
His back ached at the thought.
The issue with commotion was that it got harder and harder to ignore the longer it went on. At some point, he caught himself having completely stilled the mind-numbing motions of peeling in favor of listening to the thudding of boots and clang of metal colliding above.
He should know better by this point. He really should know better.
Ambushes were nothing new. The Northern Empire was quite experienced with attacks, actually. As a matter of fact, Grian had witnessed loads of them with his very own eyes. Ships like the one he currently worked on carried tons of wares of varying value. Items and other pretty things found on the crew’s travels across the oceans and accompanying trips to its alluring tropical islands.
Trophies to show others all the places they’ve been. Resources, treasures — or rare creatures, even.
The kitchen door flew open with a loud slam, causing the pots on the counter to rattle.
Grian flinched, vibrant wings straining in their bindings as he accidentally cut himself with the kitchen knife. Biting back a cry of pain, he schooled his expression, turning to face whoever had entered.
Face down. Hands where they can see them.
The ship’s first mate stood in the doorway. Broad, heavy, his face clean-shaven except for a thin scar running down his left cheek. Ice-blue eyes scanned the room slowly, deliberately, stopping on Grian. The corners of his mouth didn’t twitch like it usually might’ve.
The first mate drew his sword from its sheath toward him, the tip of it thick with blood and smelling of iron, matching his clothing. Grian flinched again.
“Thought you might sneak upstairs, bird,” he snarled, voice low and sharp. ”Good — stay there. You so much as think about flapping those wings, I’ll rip ’em clean off.”
Grian nodded numbly, desperately ignoring the blood pouring from his finger. From his periphery, he could see the first mate watching him for another moment, two — before smirking, shoving him on the chest.
“Have fun. I’ll look forward to that soup tonight.”
With that, the door slammed shut — and he was gone.
Grian instantly breathed out a sigh of relief, slumping from his rigid position to reach for the small shelf by the stove. It held a tin of herbs, a jar of salt, and a neat bundle of cloth bandages in case of emergency.
Bird was just one of the many nicknames he’d afforded himself from the crew members of this ship. They were real creative. Other highlights included parrot (a reference to his macaw heritage), beak, and on rare occasions, feathers.
All very original nicknames. The crewmembers weren’t exactly the smartest pick of the bunch.
His finger was already as covered in blood as that sword had been, and Grian did his best to wash it off with clean, boiling water — before ripping off a strip of the bandages to wrap snugly around his finger.
After that, it was back to work. He lived an impressive life, for being the very last of his kind.
Jeez.
How that was the case was thanks to the humans and their greedy hunting trips in search of valuable hybrid feral traits. These included many features, such as faun antlers or avian wings. The only reason Grian still had his was because he was the only avian left.
Although… he would’ve preferred if they’d just taken his wings and left him to bleed out, back home on his island. Anything would’ve been better than spending his whole life here, really.
With trembling fingers, he finished peeling the last potato, avoiding catching a glimpse out of the window as he threw it into the saucepan.
He knew one thing for certain — humans were cruel, selfish beings. That much was indisputable.
As he watched the soup cook, he found himself a bit astounded with the fact that his battle was still ongoing. The crew of this ship weren’t bad fighters by any means. They could finish most ambushes in a matter of minutes — maybe even less. The fact they hadn’t…
No. No, Grian. None of that. He couldn’t afford it. Not right now, not ever.
They were just struggling a bit more than usual. They’d always complain about how easy most battles were, and how they wished for more of a challenge when they got attacked. Now, they’d gotten it. He might not need to listen to their childlike whining about it for at least a little bit. That was good.
And then—
Then, the ship went quiet. Eerily quiet, like a grave, or the sea at 4AM in the morning.
The commotion — the fighting — had stopped.
Somewhere upstairs, a door flew open and the sound of multiple sets of boots echoed against the walls as they descended the stairs into the ship's underbelly.
Heart dropping, Grian rushed to get the soup off the stove, turning it off and lifting the lid to check if it's good enough to be served. With rising terror, he realized that it wasn’t done yet.
But they’ll want food right away. He can’t be late like last time, he can’t—
The kitchen door opened a second time.
Grian stiffened, still for a moment before whirling around, expecting to once again come face to face to the first mate — but instead, he found himself staring at a man he’d never seen before.
A stranger.
The man stepped through, short and grinning, blood spattered across his shirt. A red bandana hung loose around his neck, and a clock on a chain swung at his hip.
Grian blanched.
“Well, look at that,” the stranger said, his voice rough. “Didn’t think the north kept pets in their kitchens.”
Grian stiffened. “I’m not—”
“—the chef? Aye, I figured.” He stepped closer, nose twitching. “Soup smells good, though. Be a shame to waste it.”
Without waiting for a response, the man stepped forward, starting to dig through the cupboards in search of a bowl. Finding one, he helped himself to a portion, steam fogging his face as he ate like someone savage.
“Been a hell of a fight,” he said through a mouthful, briefly glancing at Grian. “You hear it from down here?”
Grian nodded once. His throat was too dry to speak, honestly. There was a stranger in the kitchen.
The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the spoon in the sink. He looked up at Grian again — curious now, not cruel.
“You look half-ready to faint. Didn’t anyone tell you? Ship’s ours now.”
Grian’s chest tightened, his jaw dropping. “What?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, snapping his fingers like he’d nearly forgotten. “You’re ours now. Unless you fancy a swim with your old masters.”
Grian could only half comprehend what he was being told. Could only stare, brain working overtime to make sense of the words. Because they’d lost. Clearly. There was no way they hadn’t. The crew had actually lost—
“Name’s Bdubs,” the man added, eyes flicking to the bindings around Grian’s wings. “That hurt? Or you just have them for fun?”
“It’s fine,” Grian said automatically.
Bdubs studied him for a beat longer — and then jerked his head toward the deck, shrugging. “C’mon then, fine-boy. The captain’ll wanna see what kind of treasure they’ve been keeping in the galley.”
Grian hesitated only a heartbeat before following him out of the galley. If he truly was under new management, he figured he didn’t really have much choice at this point. Either that, or this was the most elaborate scheme to get him trouble he’d ever witnessed. Though that seemed a bit unrealistic, even for his old crew.
Old. Past, or gone. Weren’t those such lovely words? If he could hold on to them, keep using them in his vocabulary — he might be fine with whatever this new crew throws at him. It couldn’t be worse than before. He’d reached rock bottom, and it was finally starting to look up for him.
It had to.
The air in the corridors was thick with smoke and seawater, and the walls trembled with each distant cannon blast. The wooden planks beneath his feet groaned as he walked.
They wound through the narrow halls, past lanterns swinging on their hooks, the light throwing long, frantic shadows across the walls. Every shout, every clash of metal above deck made Grian flinch, but thankfully, Bdubs didn’t seem to notice.
It felt wrong. Grian’s heart pounded so loudly it drowned the noise around him. He knew this could be it — freedom, or something close enough — but it felt wrong. Some small, pathetic part of him was still expecting the first mate to jump out and drag him kicking and screaming by the wing back to the kitchen. For a blow to add to his long list of scars.
The sound of chaos grew louder as they climbed the final set of steps, until the door above them burst open and light flooded in. Grian blinked against it, his eyes stinging a little after hours below deck.
The deck itself was alive with movement. Smoke coiled through the air, thick with the tang of gunpowder and the brine of the sea. The air itself seemed to hum — sailors shouting, ropes creaking, crates slamming against the boards. The foreign crew moved with practiced precision, their voices rough but sure. No one even spared Grian a glance.
And at the heart of it all, standing near the ship’s wheel with the wind in his hair, was the man who commanded it — the captain.
He stood easy, one hand on the railing, his black coat snapping in the wind. The sun caught in his hair, gold gleaming through the tangle of chestnut strands tied loosely at the back. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with old scars.
Bdubs clapped Grian on the shoulder, startling him out of his musings. “There he is, the big guy himself.”
Just as he said that — the captain turned. Right away, his gaze landed on Grian, steady and assessing. For a long, unbearable moment, he said nothing. The noise of the deck seemed to fade, swallowed by the weight of his green eyes.
“Bdubs,” he said finally, his voice carrying with effortless authority. “What’s this? Treasure?”
Bdubs grinned. “Aye, of sorts. Found him hiding in the galley. Figured you’d want to decide what to do with him.”
The captain stepped closer, his expression unreadable as he spared a quick glance at Grian’s wings. Grian, who currently felt like his heart was seconds away from breaking out of his ribcage and jumping off the ship, right into the ocean.
The captain hummed. “Aren’t you a little far from home?”
He swallowed, his throat dry as he tried to think of a response. He was speaking to a captain — a pirate captain, no less. If he determines Grian isn’t worthy to keep, he’d be killed right there. Despite all the times in the past he’d wished for the opposite, Grian wanted to live.
Useful.
He could be useful.
“Your crew looks busy,” he managed. “Is there anything I can do to… help?”
The captain’s mouth quirked, a low laugh escaping him. “We’ll see about that.” His eyes flicked once more to the bindings around Grian’s wings, and something in his gaze softened — just slightly. Hardly anything noticeable to the average human. “But first, let’s get you off this wreck.”
He raised his voice over the din. “Mumbo!”
The name rang out, and from among the crew a tall figure emerged — long-limbed, awkward, moving with the careful clumsiness of someone always on the verge of tripping over himself. His dark hair was a windblown mess, and the faint shine of a moustache caught the sunlight.
“This one’s yours for now,” the captain said.
The newcomer blinked, then offered Grian a quick, hesitant smile. “Oh — right. Uh, name’s Mumbo. Come on, mate, I’ll take you back to our ship.”
He extended a hand. Grian stared at it, half expecting a trick — but the hand simply stayed, patient.
Hesitantly, he took it. The warmth startled him.
Mumbo’s grip was firm but kind. As if he wanted to make sure the gesture didn’t hurt. Grian almost burst out laughing at the thought, really. A human, not wanting to cause hurt.
He forgot how to breathe, for a second. No one had ever touched him gently before.
“Welcome aboard,” Mumbo said, kindly — before leading the way to the plank connecting the two ships.
Grian followed him, dazed. Around them, pirates shouted and laughed and worked, none of them even sparing him as much as a glance. He wasn’t saying that to insinuate they should be, or anything. No, it was just new. Strange.
It was a strange thing, really.
Hope.